Don't Fear the Reaper
by The Trail's End
Summary: (a rewrite of chaos is what killed the dinosaurs). Jason Dean was a bit of a cryptid, as some would say. Many towns in America had the misfortune of bearing Big Bud Dean's trademark, and Sherwood, Ohio was the next stop. However, when he discovers that there's a homicidal brunette in Westerburg's ranks, things get blown out of proportion. (ROLESWAP AU)


**This fanfiction is a rewrite of 'Chaos is What Killed the Dinosaurs' by Sageclaw. I switched profiles mainly because word was getting out that I was Sageclaw in my school (mainly because I kept telling my friends how excited I was that people were reading my writing) and I'd rather not have people in my life know that I post fanfictions.**

 **Also when I made my old profile I was a 'LOL RAWR XD' kid and I'd rather have my profile reflect who I am now!** **I've been thinking about moving accounts for awhile now, but the whole 'people starting to know I write fanfictions' thing kinda made it go into action...**

 **...and i've been have mental health problems regarding depression and shit, but whatever**

 **Anyways.**

 **Warnings: There's going to be a lot of swearing and other not-so-nice stuff (Homophobia, possibly racism, self harm, suicide, abuse in relationships, I don't think there will be any sexual content besides kissing...typical Heathers terribleness.) I'll change it to M if it gets too bad.** **  
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 **Disclaimers: Brands, music, and other things like that featured in this fanfiction don't belong to me.  
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Sherwood, Ohio.

A drowsy whistle-stop shrouded in aspen groves and shadowy clusters of oak trees. The only modern amenities in Sherwood was some convenience store and a few country clubs scattered around the town.

To spare you the details, I can summarize it up in one sentence.

At first glance, you couldn't tell, but it was a shithole.

I first learned of Sherwood when I overheard my dad prattling on the phone again about some building he blew to bits and piece. However, in the midst of his endless rambling, I was able to pick out the news that we were moving.

The news wasn't that hard to process; I was happy to leave Albany - it was a miserable and forgettable place. I assumed Sherwood would be the same. The town seemed like another bump in the road - three pointless months and back to moving.

Within the first few days of living there, I could tell that it's only purpose was to lure in retirees and country club members, promising freshly painted, splinterless verandas and meticulously manicured green lawns. When you first drove into town, you were greeted by a wooden sign with the shiny gold lettering 'Welcome to Sherwood! Est. 1809'. Drive a few more feet, and a few identical houses with white picket fences pop up - and the occasional passerby will glance at the car and grimace, their face wrinkling.

Sherwood tried to be appealing, but it all fell apart when it came to the people living there.

Even when I stepped out of the car and offered a smile to a woman walking her dog, she frowned at the sight of me and turned her head, staring blankly ahead.

No one wanted to have any social interaction...at all.

Good.

The house in front of me was rather simple: shadowy due to the canopy of hazel trees and colorful due to the goldenrod and russian sage scattered under the windows. The garden was sparse, but neatly trimmed - it reflected its surroundings. Not too much, not too little. Not too unkempt, not too tidy.

My own little perfect bubble in the ruthless world - that freshly painted picket fence and the trimmed shrubbery did their best to block the view of my neighbors' houses. The mere idea of a neighbor seeing those goldenrods? Good heavens! What a tragedy that would be...

"Jason?"

The guttural tone belonged to my father - a stout man with pallid, wrinkled skin and lifeless blue eyes, the clearness in them akin to frosted glass. He was carrying a cardboard box in his hands, marked ' **VHS TAPES** ' in crisp black sharpie.

It was practically the opposite of his television persona. It was a miracle at all that he could deceive the public into thinking he was some millionaire with a bombastic personality.

I turned my back towards the house and looked up at him, drumming my fingers against my suitcase's handle. "What?"

"Keep walking," he replied, hugging the box closer and closer as his arms grew tired of carrying it. "We gotta get this shit into the house before dark."

...Looks like I don't have time for my monologues.

I nodded and dragged my feet along the brick pathway, my suitcase slowly swinging from side to side as it seldom bounced against my leg.

* * *

The first few days at Westerburg High correlated with my theory - the pretty, pristine town of Sherwood was just a show for the tourists that flocked in during the summer, and the retirees. Although the outside of the high school looked polished, the interior of the school was littered with trash, dust that settled on nearly every surface, and the floors looked like they hadn't been waxed in twenty years.

Still, the popular crowd tried to keep the Sherwood brand alive. They clung to their necklaces decorated with aquamarine or pearls, turtleneck sweaters, and scrunchies like their social lives would be destroyed by some Holy God of Fashion if they didn't have their choice brands. They didn't want to end up _like that poor girl Kelly Harris,_ I heard someone say.

Through all of the madness, however, I was able to learn one thing - all the popular kids obeyed the will of one single group, made up of four girls. The Heathers.

Heather Chandler was the leader. Her blonde curls were always neatly accompanied with a red scrunchie, giant shoulder pads, and a sharp tongue that destroyed egos and, to describe it simply, made weaker students cry. I suspected she was the Holy God of Fashion people were always watching for.

Heather McNamara was Chandler's second-in-command. Although she wasn't as eloquent as Heather Chandler, her attitude wasn't that much different. Her position as head cheerleader skyrocketed both her popularity among Westerburg and her boldness. The blonde never ignored insults or gossip her classmates tossed at her; she always found a way to strike back.

This is where Heather Duke and Veronica Sawyer are usually mentioned. It was a wonder they let Duke into the clique - she was skittish and quiet, she hardly uttered a word, pleasant nor repulsive. All I knew was that Veronica became a member of the clique a year prior.

Yet, their position in the Heathers clique was the most critical, from what I heard. Both were in the yearbook committee. Veronica apparently ran for the student council last year but lost to Carrie Leavitt by a small fraction by votes, I heard someone say. Another whispered that they couldn't believe how Duke managed to run a thousand clubs flawlessly, and still make time for the Heathers' daily trips to the local mall. They had connections to the entire student body, a power that was often misused.

What did they do with that power, you might ask? Well, they spread misinformation. Gossip was easy to spark.

Whenever the four girls walked past, students either looked at them with fear or awe. No one had the guts to make fun of them. No one wanted their social lives to burn right before them.

I didn't have much time to collect more information than that - then again, the bulk of that information could be rumors. I didn't know why Kelly Harris was mentioned so often. I didn't know how the Heathers became so powerful. I didn't know, and I didn't really care enough to keep tuning in to all those pointless conversations.

So, when I saw the quartet of Heathers parade around the lunchroom, talking aimlessly to the other popular shitheads, I raised an eyebrow. My expectations were considerably low already, but they already managed to fail all of them. None of the Heathers looked the least bit threatening.

The non-Heather, and who I assumed to be Chandler, asked everyone from joanies to jocks about some lunch poll and wrote down their answers. Must've been something for the school newspaper.

And Veronica? Well, she listened lightly, dwelling more on the fact that I was staring her down.

I was a bit surprised when she walked right over.

She was hugging a clipboard to her chest, a faint smile tugging at the edge of her lips. Compared to the other girls in her clique, Veronica didn't stick to one color. The tweed jacket, splattered with intricate gray, black, and white designs, sat stiffly on Veronica's shoulders. An aquamarine brooch was pinned to her blouse, a splash of color in the sea of gray. "Hello, Jason Dean."

"Greetings and salutations," I began, my voice was more airless, and a little bit more wary, than I expected. The same thought kept echoing in my head: I was talking to a member of the most powerful group in school. I continued, jaded, "Are you a Heather?"

"No," she answered. Her voice was warm yet cynical, each word carefully selected and planned - how she managed to calculate her sentences in such a small time frame was a mystery to me. "I'm a Veronica - Sawyer."

I nodded, taking another glimpse at her outfit. Her feet shifted, her gaze still seeping into mine as she discerned my character. An eye for an eye. "This may seem like a really stupid question."

"There are no stupid questions."

Veronica's smirk widened at my remark, chuckling silently. "You inherit five million dollars the same day aliens land on the earth and say they're gonna blow it up in two days. What do you do?"

I broke the eye contact for a second, glancing down at the floor. "That's," I continued fluttering my gaze everywhere but her perplexing demeanor, "The stupidest question I've ever heard."

I paused, taking into consideration that I _could_ throw in a half-assed answer, and pull it off as sarcastic or cynical. However, this girl could be different. Perhaps her cold, smug posture was a product of the Heathers' influence. Might as well try to be interested...

"Ah, I don't know. Probably row out to the middle of a lake somewhere, bring along a bottle of tequila, my sax, and some bac'."

"How very."

I found myself grinning - a rare sight, especially these days - but it soon faded. Heather Chandler swept in, promptly standing at Veronica's side as she nudged her. "Come on, Veronica," she egged on, her eyes refusing to even glance in my direction.

"Later," the brunette sighed, her dark brown eyes lingering on my face. She smiled disjointedly as those brown eyes glimmered like sparks leaping out of a campfire, blissfully unaware of her surroundings as Chandler dragged her away.

...Maybe Veronica didn't need to be feared.

I looked at the wall, regaining my apathetic composure. I knew other students were staring at me, whispering, wondering. What was Sawyer's goal, they wondered. Did she have a goal? Other students - including two particular jocks - grovelled about her decision, commenting that the trench coat kid in the corner was nothing more than a waste of space. Others wondered how I was still alive after being in her presence.

It was an odd thing, their gossip. They threw their words out into the clouds, watching and hoping as they waited for the ominous thunder to strike as lightning, impatient for the moment it would hit something - whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, it didn't matter to them.

It wasn't long before two jocks, nearly identical, trudged over, their eyes burning with anger.

One of them shoved his finger into my bowl of god-knows-what-since-the-cafeteria-workers-made-it. "You gonna eat this?" he sneered, baring his yellowed teeth, his breath stained with beer and cigarette smoke.

I didn't say anything. Lightning wouldn't hit if you took shelter.

"What did your boyfriend say when you told him you were moving to Sherwood, Ohio?" the other added.

Still silent, I raised a brow. What were these idiots trying to accomplish? In what world would that lameass attempt at an insult scare anybody?

The first one leaned closer. "Answer him, dick."

"Hey, Ram," the other glanced at the now named senior, "Doesn't this cafeteria have a 'no fags allowed' rule?'"

"Well they," I began, with a scornful tone, "Seem to have an open-door policy for assholes, though, don't they?"

They shared a futile mental exchange, before glaring at me. "What'd you say, dickhead?" the unnamed jock snarled.

"Ah, I'll repeat myself." I sighed nonchalantly, standing up. In one swift movement, I pulled out a gun and shot two blanks.

Assholes.

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 **Thanks for reading! It means a lot to me! (:**

 **...Also, since the poll was tied (for if I'd do a Q &A or a requested oneshots), I'll be doing oneshots. To request one, just PM me.**

 **I thought I should mention this: this AU is NOT inspired by deanesque's. I love her AU, but I got the idea from another tumblr user. (they gave me permission).**

 **Have a wonderful night.**


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